


Still So Much To Do

by AwstensGuitar



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Platonic Moxiety, lots of emotions, please help these boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 15:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwstensGuitar/pseuds/AwstensGuitar
Summary: Struggle is a universal experience, and the mind is no exception.





	Still So Much To Do

**Author's Note:**

> I want to continue this but haven't figured out an exact plotline to follow so I'm open to suggestions (and let me know if you find any errors in this) so thank you in advance!

Virgil sat glumly in the darkness of his room, twiddling his fingers and sighing quietly every now and then. He missed Patton, longed for arms draped softly around his shoulders and a head resting on his chest, rising up and down with his breath. Virgil had always been lonely, abandoned, it was a fact of his life, undeniable. And then Patton came, greeting him with smiles and kindness and laughter and hope. He knew he’d become attached as soon as anyone loved him, but he hadn’t expected quite this kind of dependence. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly, rocking back and forth on top of the blankets that lay messily on top of his sheets. Wistfully, almost without thinking, he stretched his hand towards the foot of the bed, where he almost thought he could see Patton smiling. Of course it was when he had no hope that he found the best thing he could ever imagine. No, not a _thing_ , not just something, a person, a friend. He paused, suddenly realizing what he was doing and cursed quietly as he brought his hand back to his side. This wasn’t who he was in front of the others. It wasn’t who he had to be in front of the others. He couldn’t stand thinking about it any longer, it was tearing down the foundations of the world he knew, so why was it filling his mind with unavoidable memories of warmth and compassion?

Patton was lying on his own bed, tossing a stress ball in the air and attempting to catch it. Needless to say, he wasn’t experiencing a 100% success rate. “Damnit!” He exclaimed as the ball flew in the opposite of the direction he’d been aiming for. It bounced off the wall again. “Crap!” There it went once more, completely denying Patton’s will. This is fine, Patton thought, definitely not a metaphor for my life progress. He sat up and tried to retrieve the ball without having to get off the bed, failing rather miserably. Temporarily forgoing the mission at hand, he flopped backwards onto his bed, grabbed the side of the blanket, and rolled himself into a comfy little burrito. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to channel the unending flood of emotion that filled his head into something practical, nothing worked. He cast his eyes across the messy room, the hasty scribbles on the wall that hadn’t properly caught the turbulence he felt in his heart, the papers torn in half and in half again until there was nothing left for his hands to do. All of it seemed to stare back at him, sneering in silence at his incessant weakness and inability to solve his own problems. Strained laughter echoed across the chaotic expanse as Patton tried to artificially brighten his mood only for the laughs to morph into broken sobbing. Why why why why _why_ was he still around if he was this useless?

Roman sat with his back pressed against his closet door, staring at the ceiling as he tried to put any insecurities from his mind. He always gave it up after a few seconds, there was just too much self-doubt for him to conquer. Pulling his legs up to his chest, he rolled forward to rest his face on the carpet and groaned. For Pete’s sake, he was _Creativity_ , he wasn’t supposed to fall into a slump like this for weeks at a time. Maybe even months, for all he knew, every day felt like an eternal continuation of the same stifling 24 hours. Stagnation wasn’t anything he knew how to deal with, it clawed at his confidence and ruined the entire image he’d built for himself across the years. His very existence relied on finding and making new things to explore and create, so what was he supposed to do when it all dried up? For Roman, the stifling of imagination wasn’t just a setback, it was the death of his brain and heart and soul, everything that made him…well, _him_. Without something new, he would start to waste away, maybe even die, and he didn’t want it happen yet. There was too much he still had to do.

Logan’s head was buzzing, far too loud for him to think or hear or even consider doing anything. Desperately slamming his hands over his ears, he started to count. 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, higher, he had to go higher until there wasn’t anywhere else to. He wouldn’t be safe until all he had below him was numbers and symbols and things he could _understand_. Loud, too loud, everything was too much too fast too vague. Reality started to flicker before Logan’s eyes, lighting up his vision with streaks of green and blue, flashing by almost too fast for him to register their ever existing, but he knew it. He knew it the same way he knew everything else, because it got into his head without him even trying, first there was nothing and then something was there. He wanted control over something more than the body he possessed, he wanted to say what should or shouldn’t stay in his mind and his seemingly endless abyss of knowledge. He always seemed to know the answers except for when he needed the help himself.


End file.
